


No Heir of Durin

by Avelera



Series: No Heir of Durin 'Verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Babies, Bilbo is not good with children, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Differences, F/M, Family, Gender Issues, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Parents & Children, Sexual Content, Tragedy, dwarves have their own concepts of gender, genderswapped Thorin but not really? dwarven gender is complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Frodo is Bilbo and Thorin’s son. </p><p>Not mpreg or fem!Bilbo. Canon compliant, save for a bit of fiddling with timelines and genetics. That’s what makes it hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Heir of Durin

**Author's Note:**

> I have my own extensive headcanons on dwarven gender, much of which you see here, but I would be remiss not to mention the wonderful fic “Lessons In Dwarven Culture” by hobbitdragon (on AO3), which inspired some of how dwarves view gender in this fic. I cannot claim credit for the Maedhros headcanon either, that comes from the fantastic Silmarillion fic “Mother and Daughter” by deborah_judge (on AO3).
> 
> The fic was inspired by this post on Tumblr http://avelera.tumblr.com/post/42856371278/thorinwantsthebaggins-i-think-there-wouldnt. Not an entirely original concept, but I really wanted a version that was canon-compliant and didn’t involve mpreg or genderswapped Bilbo. 
> 
> Please enjoy, though I warn you I am a frequent angst writer and this is one of the few of my own fics that made me cry.

It was Balin who first explained to Bilbo what seemed at the time to be the bizarre and alien concept of dwarven gender. Fully half the company was female? First he had scoffed, thinking the elderly dwarf was having a go at him. Then his gaze had flicked to each of the dwarves, searching for some obvious sign. Balin tutted.

“You’ll not tell by looking at them,” Balin said. “After all, they’re every one of them men.”

Bilbo’s mouth fell open and he furrowed his brow, taking a deep suck at his pipe to buy a moment’s time. Balin was in earnest, but Bilbo’s own mind did flip-flops as he tried to wrap it around what he had heard. “So half of them are female, but they’re all men?” he said, stumbling over the words as he did so. He could somewhat see the shape of it, after all the elves in their lore were known not to distinguish or clarify gender either, and as a armchair scholar of sorts Bilbo had some acquaintance with the concept. Many a Man and Hobbit had been puzzled by Gil-Galad’s parentage, for example, until one realized that “Sons of Fëanor” was something of a misnomer, and if Gil-Galad’s mother was not mentioned it was only because he had disowned Maedhros for her role in the fall of Doriath.

But that was a simple matter of mistranslation from Elvish, and misunderstandings on the part of the scholars of Men. Female elves were still visibly different from male elves in person, even if the difference was not so clear in the histories. But men and women being indistinguishable? Bilbo thought he could be forgiven for finding that a bit queer, and said so.

“Of course our men and women can be distinguished,” said Balin. “They are very different in voice and appearance, especially of late when many women have taken a shine to the fashions of Men. Dresses, shorter beards and the like.” At this Bilbo needed to pause again, for he felt himself skirting the edge of a dreadful social faux pas. 

“You said men and women, and male and female. These are… different for your people?” said Bilbo. He braced himself by biting down on the stem of his pipe. They were sitting a little distance from the huddled group around the fire, and he hoped he had pitched his voice low enough that his question would not carry to their ears. Balin was the most understanding of Bilbo’s inquiries into dwarven culture, for though Bilbo had left his books at home he’d like to think he had not left his brain there as well, and Balin with his patience was Bilbo’s frequent tutor. Even so, Bilbo was dismayed by the look of disgust that twitched the corner of Balin’s lips into a frown and wrinkled his nose. “Oh no, I’ve gone and put my foot in it again, haven’t I?” Bilbo said.

“No, no it’s all right. I know Hobbits are closer to Men in these things, still I find it more than a little… barbaric, to be honest. But to answer your question, yes in our own language there’s hardly any overlap at all between the two. Our words for those who can bear children is not related in the slightest to those who are women, and our forefathers were shocked to learn this was not the same for the other races. Oftentimes our women and our females must take extra precautions when on the road, for the race of Men has many strange concepts. As if the ability to bear children somehow changes a person! Why it’s as preposterous as saying that the color of your eyes should decide your profession,” Balin said and chuckled to himself, if a bit angrily, as if he found the whole thing to be a rude joke. Bilbo tilted his head to the side, for put like that he could see something of the dwarf point of view. Why should the ability to plant seeds rather than bring them to term make any difference in regards to dress or personality?

“Then, if it’s not too forward of me, can you tell me which ones?” said Bilbo.

Balin pursed his lips. “It’s not too forward, but it is something of a private matter and it’s not exactly my place. It would probably be best if you asked each of them yourself.”

Bilbo stifled a groan. “Right, and get a punch in the mouth for my troubles? Thank you, but no. I think I’m better off not knowing.”

Balin smiled into his beard. “Aye, and that may be for the best. You’re a good sort, Bilbo, but I know it can be a hard thing to shake off a lifetime’s education. You’re probably better off continuing to think of them just as dwarves. After all, it’s how we think of ourselves.”

Bilbo took this advice, and never did ask which of the dwarves were female by the measure of Men. Sometimes during the long stretches of silence that followed any such journey, he wondered if Kíli’s short beard was a sign of something more than youth, or if Dori’s mother-henning of his little brother really was from maternal instinct. At times he was mildly terrified as he considered whether Dwalin being “well set up” for a dwarf meant more than he realized. But he was definitely not going to make any inquiries _there_ , Bilbo thought as he eyed Dwalin’s knuckle-dusters and rubbed his mouth absently.

No, he only found an answer to that closely guarded secret from one. On an oversized bed in one of Beorn’s many guest rooms, while the crackling fire cast a glow that was only a fraction of the heat of skin on skin, lips and teeth and grasping hands. Bilbo’s jacket and waistcoat came away easily, and were followed by a heavy, fur-lined coat of deepest blue. The belt came last, and in the mad dash of need it presented the most infuriating of puzzles. Bilbo was soothed by the deep-throated chuckle in his ear and the whisper of breath against his neck as Thorin finally deigned to help him, and the belt fell clanking to the ground, along with the final layer of cloth. Bilbo sucked in a breath as the dark tunic and trousers fell away. Dwarves wore so many layers, totally masking the shape of their bodies, so he never would have guessed that of all of them _Thorin_ would be…

“You’re female,” said Bilbo, and a fraction of a second later thanked his lucky stars that at least he had not been so crass as to say ‘a woman.’

“Is that a problem?” said Thorin, arching an eyebrow. It was still the same Thorin, same voice, same broadness of shoulder, same corded muscles and neatly trimmed beard. In truth the difference was slight, perhaps even invisible at a distance for there was still a fine thatch of hair across his chest and stomach, which ran in a trail down to a dark nest between his legs. The nipples were slightly larger, but there was only a hint of softness there to give any indication that a child could nurse.

“No!” said Bilbo, and was a little surprised at himself to realize he spoke the truth. That he would have taken Thorin under any circumstances, and the lust that burned in the pit of his belly was not dimmed in the slightest. But it did raise another consideration he had been rather unprepared for.

“Then why are we stopping?” Thorin growled, bowing his head to place his lips to the base of Bilbo’s throat. The graze of teeth and hot breath was really too much, and Bilbo knew he had only a second to squeak out his concern before his better judgment was trampled.

“It’s not that! Just… should we worry about any sort of…?” Bilbo felt a different sort of blush rise to his cheeks. Tearing each other’s clothes off was one thing, but getting into the particulars of family planning? It was more than any gentleman Hobbit should be expected to do, except under extreme duress. The warm suction of Thorin’s kisses against his throat was taking his mind to an entirely different place, so the last word came out as a strangled yelp. “Children! Should we worry about children?”

Thorin broke away, looking amused. “I am nearly two hundred years old.”

Bilbo blinked. “I’m sorry, but is that old by dwarf reckoning? It certainly is by ours, but you seem, well, in your prime.”

“It means it is a small possibility,” said Thorin. “And if it is to be, then I would take that chance. For if not now then there is very little time left.”

“I-uh, that is, I’m not sure if _I’m_ entirely ready for such a step!” said Bilbo, drawing back a step in alarm.

Thorin’s smile returned, but his eyes held a shadow of old bitterness and grief. “I would not worry, for we are not a race known for our fertility and I especially…well, if it has not happened before, I doubt it ever will.”

Bilbo went silent, for the echo of that grief tore at his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to wash it away. He rose to his tiptoes, capturing Thorin’s mouth in his and gently guiding him backwards to the bed, nearly tripping over their fallen clothes in his urgency. Soon all such concerns were forgotten, and the fire burned low beside them, casting the long shadows of their entwined bodies against the wall.

* * *

* * *

 

It was Balin who first came to him, after Bilbo bid his final farewell to Thorin. Bilbo sat with his knees drawn to his chest on a small hill just outside the camp. His sniffles had died down, but his eyes were red-rimmed, his face hot, and the terrible emptiness in his heart still ached and he knew it always would. He was hollow and hurting and miserable, and never before had he so longed for his Hobbit hole.

Balin had a bandage wrapped around his head, a spot of blood visible against the white cloth from the wound he had taken during the battle. The dirt and sweat had been washed away, and he was once again in a familiar red coat, but grief lay heavy on the elderly dwarf and added a century’s worth of years in wrinkles and darkened eyes.

“We weren’t sure if we should tell you, but the other lads agreed you had the right to know,” said Balin. 

“What could you _possibly_ have to tell me that I don’t know already?” Bilbo spat, with the full weight of his pain and venom in each word. Bilbo knew it was unfair, that the pain of loss was as great for Balin, greater even, as it was for him. But he was hurt, and sad, and just wanted to be angry if only to alleviate the crushing weight in his heart. He saw Balin in his mind's eye, standing at Thorin’s side and saying nothing as Bilbo begged them to treat with Bard and Thranduil, as he tried to save their lives. Balin should have spoken, Balin should have been the voice of _reason_ when the younger dwarves were swept up in the gold lust. If he had, it might not have come to this, if Balin had…

It only hurt more that Balin was not taken aback by Bilbo’s tone. There was only sadness in his eyes, and most damnable of all there was _understanding_. Balin settled down beside Bilbo, and placed a hand on his knee. Bilbo wanted to throw it off, for the warmth of that touch was working its way through him like water through stone, and he knew soon he would crack beneath it and shatter once more, and oh he was already so tired of breaking.

Balin glanced down and took a deep breath, patting his hand once again on Bilbo’s knee absently before looking up to meet his gaze. “It’s about Thorin.” 

 _Of course it’s about Thorin_ , Bilbo wanted to snap but even as he opened his mouth his throat closed around the words and he saw the field tent, and the bloody furs. So much blood, and Thorin so wasted and pale and somehow _smaller_ , as if life had given him size and it was draining out of him by inches. Bilbo clawed after the rage as it escaped him but could not reclaim it, and the only sound that emerged was a strangled hiccough as tears pricked his eyes anew and burned fresh trails down his cheeks. Surely there must be an open wound in his chest, somehow missed by the healers, for how else could it feel so strongly that he was being torn in two?

“Perhaps now is not the time,” Balin said, shifting to rise. “I will come back again later.”

“N-no,” said Bilbo and coughed to clear his throat. He straightened, scraping away the tears with the back of his hand and releasing a long, slow breath to clear his voice. “No, whatever it is, say it now. I’ll be leaving this place at first light, and good riddance, so if you’ve something to say this is your chance.” His voice was strengthened by years of knee-jerk propriety and stubbornness. Bilbo may be the most hated Hobbit in Erebor, but never let it be said he could not face down his accusers. 

Balin stood, and then extended his hand to Bilbo. “It is something better seen than explained. Thorin said he had not told you, that he wanted to be sure, you see. I think he did not want to burden you.”

“Enough with the riddles, Balin. Tell me what it is, and I will say if and when I will see it,” said Bilbo, ignoring Balin’s offered hand.

Balin sighed. “I was afraid you might say that. There’s no easy way to tell it, lad, it should have been between you and Thorin but…things being what they were, I understand his reasons.” Balin gathered himself, and met Bilbo’s eyes squarely. “Thorin was with child when he died.”  

There was a loud rushing in Bilbo’s ears, as if a dam had burst in the river, and he thought perhaps that must be what had happened for the ground felt unsteady beneath him and his head swam. Balin continued, “We’ve managed to save the babe, despite Thorin’s wounds, but it is a sickly thing and was born far too early. Some thought it would be best to spare you, in case it does not last the night, but we agreed that it was better if you knew.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Bilbo said stupidly.

Balin gave him a pitying look. “Because the child is yours.”

Bilbo did not resist, could not, as Balin gently pulled him to his feet, and drew him back towards the field tent. The part of Bilbo not lost in a churning fog of confusion quailed at the sight. _No, not there, not again I can’t bear it, I can’t…_. But he could not muster the voice nor the strength to resist the gentle but inexorable tug of Balin’s hand.

A thin sheet served as a wall between the bed that still held Thorin’s body, and the cradle that held the tightly swaddled babe. Bilbo tasted iron, and horror, and knew he had bitten through his lip as he willed himself not to look through the sheet to the faint outline on the other side, to another body tightly swaddled in a shroud. It was too soon, he could feel Thorin’s hand go slack in his not even an hour ago, and more painful than that memory was the agony of hope, that there had been a mistake, that if he went into the next room and wrapped his hand around Thorin’s he would feel life in that grasp. With death so recent, Thorin would only appear to be sleeping, and Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, the last tired tears leaking out from beneath his lids, not sure if he was trying to blot out his last glimpse of Thorin’s body or fix it in place. 

A whimper called him back, a weak mewl no louder than a kitten that struck him to his core like a thunderbolt. Bilbo’s eyes flew open and he looked down. A tiny form lay there, bound up in cotton and furs to warm it. Its eyes were closed, but a tuft of black hair peaked out from beneath the covers and its face was red and wrinkled. Balin had been right, it was small, no larger than Bilbo’s hand, and its breath fluttered so weak it would not stir the wing of a butterfly.

“It’s a boy, by your reckoning,” Balin said. His hand hovered above the baby’s head, but hesitated to touch it. “We think it best if you take him back with you to the Shire.”

Bilbo’s mouth worked. “But the line of Durin, with Fíli and Kíli…isn’t he needed for the succession?” said Bilbo.

Balin shook his head slowly. “It would be a century before he’d be fit to rule, and half that again for him to learn all that would be needed. Dáin has stepped forward to assume the kingship, and his line is secure in his son. We would not be needing this little one for quite some time. Until then, well…” Balin looked up at Bilbo. “I think he would be happier with his kin, don’t you?” Balin did not say that this child was no heir of Durin, that Hobbits do not live so long as Dwarves, and with his dual heritage the babe would be gray before he’d even come of age by their standards. Balin did not say it because he did not need to, Bilbo could see mortality lying across the child like a veil, from his button nose to the shell of his pointed ears, it was Hobbit blood that ran strong in this one. There would be no dwarven centuries for him.

“Could you leave me with him for a moment?” said Bilbo, proud at the lack of tremor in his voice. Balin bowed and took his leave without a word. He could afford to be gracious, Bilbo thought uncharitably, for Balin had won, knowing as he had that it would take only the briefest glimpse of his son for Bilbo to be utterly lost.

The tent flap fell still behind Balin before Bilbo moved, tracing the tip of his finger against the baby’s cheek. It yawned and shifted in its sleep, snuggling against the palm of Bilbo’s hand. For the briefest moment its eyes opened and they flashed blue as a summer sky. All baby’s eyes are blue, Bilbo told himself, and all have black hair. That will change in time, becoming red or blond or any of a myriad hues, the eyes may darken to his own hazel. This he told himself even as he felt the strength leave his legs and he slipped down to his knees. The babe had fallen asleep against his hand, and did not wake when Bilbo covered his face in the crook of his arm and gave himself up to dry, wracking sobs. 

* * *

They could not leave the next day as Bilbo had planned, for they needed supplies to take such a weak babe on so arduous a trek, and the healers would not hear of releasing him into Bilbo’s care until the danger had past. A month they held him there. He saw Thorin buried, and Dáin crowned, and wished with every breath in his body to be long away from this cursed place.

Eventually the child, still unnamed, was deemed strong enough and Gandalf with his horse, and Bilbo with his pony set out from Erebor. A goat was tethered to the pony’s reins to provide milk for the child, and what should have only been a matter of a few months stretched to twice that time as they took long breaks in every village they came across, and again at Beorn’s, and at Rivendell. 

If the journey taught Bilbo anything it was this: he could not care for an infant child. The late night crying grated on his already frayed nerves, for every wail from the child called an answering cry in his heart. Absurd as it may be, he felt that the child provided voice for his grief over Thorin, a grief he wanted nothing more than to bury beneath his books and silence at Bag End. 

It was Gandalf who often as not took the child when it cooed and reached out for cuddles and play. Feeding and changing Bilbo did without complaint; it was not the day-to-day care that made his decision, for he had tended to many young cousins. No, it was touching, playing, and simple holding that he could not bear, for every time he looked into the child’s startling blue eyes (they had not changed, much as he had hoped they would, and prayed they wouldn’t) he found himself frozen, the grief a paralytic that clawed at his limbs and trapped his heart. Gandalf would take the babe then, without a word of complaint, dandling it and telling it stories it surely could not understand.

“You will need to name him eventually,” said Gandalf. The baby was nestled easily into the crook of his arm as he rode. They had left Rivendell some days before, the road easy and swift now that it lacked pursuit. Even with an infant, three traveled faster than fifteen.

Bilbo glanced over at the child, noting the wrinkles that made all infants look like old men. Its cheeks were beginning to soften into the warm, pink softness of infancy, but still when he looked at it all he could see was ancient eyes that had already lost too much. “He is wise already, but ill-fated. He came to the world in death and blood, and it will follow him so long as he live.”

Gandalf grunted in disapproval. “He was born of a great love, one that knew no boundaries, and he was born of adventure. These too he shall know.” Bilbo looked away, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle a retort and because he was sick unto death of mourning.

“Frodo,” said Bilbo finally. “It is an old Baggins name, meaning “wise”. There, now we are both happy. May it serve him well.”

“His father would have given him another name, a secret name, for that is the way of dwarves,” said Gandalf.

“His father is dead,” said Bilbo, and clucked his pony to a quicker pace, leaving Gandalf and Frodo behind. 

* * *

It was Balin who first visited Bilbo, seven years after he had returned from Erebor. None of the other dwarves had bothered, and Bilbo tried not to think much of it, for when going to Ered Luin the Shire was a goodly ways off the road even for such hardened travelers. It just so happened that Balin’s visit corresponded with one of Gandalf’s and the three men fell to smoking their pipes and chatting of old times as well as new. Bilbo noted that Balin’s belt was richer than he had last seen it, and his beard longer. Seven years was a good time to be apart, an excellent time really for the memory of their last meeting was fading comfortably into the dimmest reaches of Bilbo’s mind, leaving room for brighter ones to return to the fore. He asked after Bard, and Dáin, and they discussed Bilbo’s role in it all. It seemed the dwarves viewed him quite a bit more favorably now that the Arkenstone was back in their possession and Erebor prosperous. There were some even willing to admit he had done the right thing when forcing negotiations in that way. At this he harrumphed, for he did not need telling this, and he certainly wouldn’t admit how much it gladdened his heart to know he could visit the Lonely Mountain once again without fear of retribution.

Gandalf bowed out to seek another wine bottle from Bilbo’s extensive cellar when Balin leaned in and asked the question Bilbo had been dreading the whole night. “And the child? How does he fare?”

“Oh, you mean Frodo?” said Bilbo. He forced his hands to stillness, for he felt the overwhelming urge to tap his pipe or chew on the stem, as was his nervous habit and one Balin knew well. “The home of a bachelor is really no place for an infant. A young cousin of mine, Drogo, and his wife Primula were childless and eager to adopt the babe. Drogo and I share some resemblance, and she is dark of hair, so really who will be able to tell? Frodo will be happier there.” He was anxious as he spoke, but why? It was all as he said, and he saw young Frodo often enough. The young lad could be seen often at market, his face smeared in some sticky treat, bouncing exuberantly between his parents. Fortune had been kind, and he favored Bilbo in all but his coloring, and even this Bilbo could bear so long as he did not look Frodo in the eye. Anyway, it was for the best, for Primula was an attentive mother, far more so than he would have been, or could have been.

“I had hoped,” said Balin slowly, making no effort to hide his disapproval, “that sending the babe, Frodo, home with you would mean he found a loving home. With his _family_.” 

Bilbo met Balin’s gaze without flinching. “And so he has.”

* * *

A boating accident they said, and as could be expected of anything that did not match what the gaffers and matrons of the Shire considered “normal”, nasty rumors began to fly before the bodies were cold. Amidst it all was little Frodo, surrounded by his Brandybuck cousins like an honor guard, one dark head among many.

 _Horrible, vicious, small-minded trolls the lot of them_ , Bilbo thought as whispers reached his ears that Drogo and Primula had been no accident, no they must have pushed each other. He fled their whispers, for he knew them well since he had returned from Erebor, and knew this would be the final straw before he showed them exactly _what_ he had learned on his travels. Bilbo’s green door slammed shut behind him and he stopped, forehead pressed to the cool lacquered wood, thinking of Frodo on the other side.

 _And what good could I do? Fleeing the rumors by bringing him into a house that’s rife with them? Some charity!_ No, the boy would be better in a home teeming with his Brandybuck relatives, their laughter and company would do far better for him than that of a sour, middle-aged Hobbit alone in his hole. 

* * *

Balin would have been the first to congratulate Bilbo some nine years later, but the elderly dwarf was gone. Rumor had it he had left Erebor with a group of his kin, on a quest to retake Moria. Once Bilbo might have thought to go with them, but all things considered he knew Balin would approve him staying.

There was no more ignoring it. The cheerful, laughing child that had clung to Primula’s skirts was fading to a shadow amongst his many cousins at Brandy Hall. _A trouble-maker_ , Bilbo heard Lobelia call the lad in a stage whisper that carried to the entire market. _Well, what do you expect? His parents were a bad sort too, drowning each other in the river, so rotten they sank to the bottom_.

Aye, his parents were rotten, Bilbo thought, his hand clenching to a fist. But not Drogo and Primula, no. They did not have it in them to hurt each other as Frodo’s parents had, to betray each other, and threaten to cast one another from the rocks!

He went to Brandy Hall that very afternoon, walking stick in hand as if it were Sting. It did not take much convincing, Rorimac was still getting an earful from Farmer Maggot over the mushrooms Frodo had reputedly stolen, and every hobbit knew that Bilbo had tunnels overflowing with gold. The boy would be well tended there.

They walked home in silence, for Frodo seemed not quite sure what to make of Bilbo, his older cousin who had only come to visit on holidays and would never look him in the eye. Bilbo for his part was studying the boy from the corner of his eye, looking for traces of the wee babe he had carried home from Erebor. The black hair had never lightened, nor the blue eyes changed, and there was more of Thorin in him than Bilbo had seen on his brief visits. As an early tween, Bilbo had had expected Frodo to be all gangly limbs and nervous energy, twitchy and awkward and free as Bilbo had been at that age. 

Instead there was a stillness about Frodo that had been Thorin’s, a way of withdrawing from the world so that it may be seen more intently. He did not stumble along the path, each step was purposeful and his eyes were ever open and bright, taking in the view around him though he must have seen it a thousand times. Frodo had nothing of the solid dwarven build, but there was calm and nobility in his bearing that Bilbo knew could not come from the Baggins side, or from being raised by Hobbits.

Then there were his eyes, for they pierced Bilbo and had ever since his first glimpse of Frodo in the cradle, and before then when Thorin first came to Bag End. When lost in thought they were solemn, but when he smiled… Bilbo remembered why he had found it so painful to be around the lad. For Thorin had smiled rarely, and when he did it was like the sun breaking through a storm. But Frodo was a hobbit child, smiles and laughter came easily, and his smiles shown like the play of sunlight on water.

They entered Bag End and set aside Frodo’s overnight pack in the spare bedroom, the rest of his belongings would be delivered from Brandy Hall by wagon over the next fortnight. It was about time for tea by the time they settled, and Bilbo prepared it without quite realizing what he was doing. Twenty years of routine had him set in his ways, but Frodo seemed eager to help, preparing the cups and saucers while Bilbo tended to the kettle.

They munched scones as they sipped their tea, the window open to the garden. Bilbo was just beginning to think he could enjoy this, another quiet presence with whom to share tea and books without any annoying chatter, when the pleasant silence was broken.

“Why did you take me in, Mister Baggins?” said Frodo tentatively.

“Oh, come lad, none of that. Call me Bilbo, I insist,” said Bilbo, gesturing with his scone and hoping the correction would mean the subject dropped.

“Why did you take me in, Bilbo?” said Frodo, and if there was any hesitation in his voice it was only courtesy.

A dozen excuses, tales of his fondness for Drogo, or the loneliness of old age, or the need to keep the Sackville-Baggineses out of the inheritance, lined up ready in his mind. But Frodo was watching him with those blue eyes and all the other excuses fell away. “It’s because, well, I suppose you remind me of…someone…” said Bilbo.

“Yourself?” Frodo supplied. A dark curl fell across his forehead and Bilbo pushed it back without thinking, twisting it back over Frodo’s ear.

“If you like,” said Bilbo. They finished their tea, Frodo leaping to clear the dishes and wipe the crumbs away. He hummed as he did so, and Bilbo did not stop him even as the dishes clattered dangerously in the tween’s hands. After all, they had survived worse.

“Bilbo,” Frodo said once the washing up was finished. Bilbo had been eyeing the garden, thinking to get a bit of weeding in before the sun set. He glanced down at the tween, who still only came up to his shoulder.

“Yes, my lad?” said Bilbo. Those eyes were shining as Frodo dove forward, wrapping his arms around Bilbo and burying his face against his chest. Bilbo froze, hands outstretched in shock.

“Thank you,” said Frodo, and looked up at Bilbo with Thorin’s eyes.

 _Oh_.

“It’s quite all right, the least I could do really…” Bilbo began. His arms relaxed and fell about Frodo’s shoulders, drawing him close. Frodo’s face pressed against Bilbo’s collarbone, his cheeks still carrying that baby softness. “Really, I had put it off for far too long,” he murmured against the tousle of black curls.

“I’ll be a good son to you too, I promise,” the boy mumbled into his chest.

“Frodo…” Bilbo said, his heart churning. He gently coaxed the boy away, holding him by the shoulders as he looked him in the eye. “Drogo and Primula were your parents, lad, and I can never replace them.” Frodo flinched and that expression of hurt made him look far more like his father than any number of smiles. “That doesn’t mean I won’t love you as much as they, or that I won’t see you as my own, but I can never take their place. Think of me more as… an uncle.” Yes, that felt right. After all, he had given up the right to be more. But an uncle, yes he could be that.

Frodo’s smile returned, and Bilbo _oof_ ed as the boy flung himself back against him. This time Bilbo did not hesitate to hug Frodo in return.

The boy would grow faster than could be believed. Ill-fated, Bilbo had called him, and born in blood. But born of love, and adventure too, as Gandalf had said. Bilbo’s heart twisted as he saw both prophecies come true for his precious boy, as the burdens and legacies of the quest for Erebor fell on Frodo’s shoulders in more ways than Bilbo could have ever anticipated, or feared even in his worst nightmares. But always at his side were the many friends that traveled with him. Gloin’s son, and Thranduil’s, Kings of Men, Hobbits, and most cherished of all a simple gardener that loved Frodo through fire and water, corruption and death.

 _No heir of Durin he, but ah, Thorin,_ Bilbo thought as he mounted the plank for the ship to the West, his nephew not far behind, _you would have been proud of him nonetheless._  

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you enjoyed this, and I would be honored if you left a comment.  
> Thank you for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gone to Silver Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299334) by [kailthia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia)
  * [A Question of Intention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429936) by [Talonfeather (Maysun)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maysun/pseuds/Talonfeather)




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